The coalition's health reform bill was rushed into casualty at Westminster hospital after complaining of severe pains. Tests quickly confirmed that the bill had been kicked repeatedly in the groin by unmasked assailants, many of whom were present and keen to continue the treatment.

Blue lights flashed. Red lights flashed, sirens screeched insistently. Unusually, just this once, little orange Lib Dem lights flashed too after being hastily attached to the roofs of Fiat Pandas. Spin doctors dashed to the scene on the off-chance that they could be unhelpful.

It had been one of those busy afternoons in A&E.

In rapid succession staff had dealt with something called "volunteers for compulsory redundancy" in the armed forces and the precise status of Libyan defector Moussa Koussa, the hooligan turned statesman who is now helping the government with its foreign policy, but not yet helping British police with assorted murder inquiries.

Westminster hospital failed in its attempts to achieve NHS foundation trust status after financial irregularities were unearthed in 2009. But it can still spot a near-death experience coming into casualty. Drunks were abandoned where they lay and elderly and incontinent patients left to stew in their own devices as paramedics pored over the case notes.

There was the briefest of hushes when Andrew Lansley, the legendary NHS bill surgeon, entered the chamber, punctuated by cries of "Hear, hear" from members of the bill's family and supportive calls of "Resign" from others on the ward.

"More, more" cried Labour MPs sarcastically who have long since realised that the health and social care bill is their best chance for a bit of shroud-waving since avian flu.

Lansley would know what to do, loyalists whispered. The younger ones cried with sheer relief. And sure enough, he did. With barely a glance at the prostrate legislation, the health secretary declared there was nothing wrong with the bill at all. It had simply been over-doing it as it rushed through the Commons en route to the Lords. "We recognise that this speed of progress has brought with it some substantive concerns. Some of these are misplaced or based on misrepresentation, but we recognise that some are genuine," the great man declared.

So humbly reassuring was Lansley that he promptly undertook to consult "experts, patients and frontline staff" on his diagnosis, pretty much anyone who happened to be passing. "I can therefore tell the house that we propose to take the opportunity to take a natural break in the passage of the bill, to pause, listen and engage with all those who want the NHS to succeed …"' The rest of the statement was punctuated by jeers and laughter.

But the well-meaning Lansley is not a man to be deflected from his diagnosis: that is what this controversy is all about. Whereas some medics bury their mistakes at night, Lansley hangs his on a gibbet in the hospital foyer. "There, I told you I was right," he tells passersby. So it was inevitable that subsequent exchanges deteriorated rapidly.

Labour's spokesman, John Healey, praised him for the scale of opposition his stubbornness had provoked: "It takes a certain talent to unite Norman Tebbit and MC NxtGen," he conceded.

Actually, it is worse than that. Norman and the anti-Lansley rapper are also in coalition with the saintly Shirley Williams, the Florence Nightingale of chronic moderation.

As opposition MPs piled in and Lib Dems tried not to be too disloyal, the big question was: "Which way will Tory backbenchers jump on this one?" As Lansley piled diagnostic detail upon comatose cliche, a grim silence descended on their benches like close family when they have given up hope of a loved one's recovery.

Would clever ex-health secretary Stephen Dorrell be their Moussa Koussa, a regime loyalist willing to defect? No. Dorrell pretended to be stupid and backed Lansley. So did they all, in the reassuring knowledge that Westminster hospital's chairman, David Cameron, is poised to take over the case.

Cameron may be a PR man by trade, not a doctor, but a strong dose of TV-and-radio therapy administered by a PR man is all he thinks the bill needs. His diagnosis? The bill is suffering from a clot: Lansley.